


Nothing But the Very Deepest Love

by jusrecht



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, pure fluff, smitten!Graves, smitten!Newt, smitten!everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 17:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10141709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: Newt comes to President Picquery’s birthday party dressed up to the nines, but once more, he fails to blend in. He'll have to apologise to Queenie (and Percival) later.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm down with cold and need something fluffy to cheer myself up, so here it is, Percival and Newt being overly sweet to each other. Sorry for any incoherence ahead.
> 
> Title comes from Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_ ♥

 

There is a line of demarcation between what one wants and what society wants.

 

In Newt’s case, this line is especially clear. If he can straddle it and has one foot at one side and another at _the other_ side, then it’s a happy coincidence indeed. Most of the times, however, he’ll go with what he wants and studiously circumvent what society wants.

 

What he wants, rendered in the simplest term, is easy enough: for his creatures (any creature with whom he has had the good fortune to encounter can be loosely classified as _his_ ) to be healthy and happy as long as it is within his power to ensure their health and happiness.

 

In other words, Newt doesn’t often find himself on this side of the line.

 

Sighing, he reaches up to touch his high collar, for probably the hundredth time now. Tina, firmly steering him around the lavish ballroom with a hand on the crook of his arm, hisses, “Stop it. You look great, Newt. Don’t you trust Queenie?”

 

Newt manages a feeble smile. He isn’t used to looking ‘great’; isn’t used to dressing up; isn’t used to this light, flowing coat of deep emerald green, made of the finest material instead of the most practical; isn’t used to the sensual caress of a silk shirt on his skin, so soft it’s almost indecent; isn’t used to clothes tailored perfectly to flatter his lean build, all sharp angles and flowing lines with no unnecessary bulk in between.

 

He. Is not used to any of these.

 

When the invitation arrived, thick parchment and graceful script in gold ink, Newt knew that this time, he had to make an effort. Any clothes in his possession would not suit, and so he asked for help from his friends. Queenie, of course, was more than kind— _ecstatic_ , even, at the idea of “dolling him up”. Newt barely managed to keep his misgivings silent as she worked with yards and yards of fabric, shiny silver buttons, pieces of fancy velvet, and rolls of matching ribbons. When she declared that he would certainly grab the attention of everyone present, Newt almost called the whole thing off, but Queenie’s delight was so palpable that he didn’t have the heart to disappoint her.

 

And so here he is, dressed to match the occasion and still, somehow, failing to blend in.

 

“Is there something wrong with my hair?”

 

Tina may look demurely beautiful in pale blue, but she is far from demure. “There is _absolutely_ nothing wrong with your hair,” she declares sternly, holding his hand in a sturdy grip before it can interfere with his hair—again. “Mercy Lewis, Newt, calm down. I’ve told you, you look great.”

 

With his hand taken hostage, Newt resigns himself to the silent suffering of unacknowledged martyrs. His eyes glance at Queenie, who is showing the dessert table to a fascinated Jacob. He will have to apologise to her later. She did an excellent job with his outfit; it’s him who cannot do it justice, with his awkwardness and his gangliness and any other disagreeable quality he seems to possess. He is too strange, a misfit in every way. The number of stares still directed at him now only confirms it.

 

President Picquery’s birthday party is a formal event, with ballroom dancing and glittering crystal chandeliers and proper music from a chamber orchestra. The president herself is resplendent in gold and red, and Newt has been avoiding looking at her direction in fear that she would spot him. So far, his luck still holds.

 

“Hey.” Tina tugs at his arm. “Finally someone notices that you’re here.”

 

Newt turns around in alarm, only catching her meaning a moment later. Percival Graves, looking impossibly more handsome than Newt has even thought possible, is making a beeline toward them.

 

Newt suddenly finds that he cannot breathe. Percival is always smartly dressed, but _this_ , this new ensemble is something else entirely.

 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have come at all.

 

“Tina.” Percival nods at her, eyes barely moving away from Newt.

 

“Evening, sir.”

 

“Newt.” Now Percival has his full attention on him. He smiles, soft around the edges. “You look wonderful.”

 

And that, Newt thinks miserably, must be the worst, except he can feel his cheeks heating up all the same. Percival is so kind to praise him, and this, more than anything, makes Newt’s decision that he will _not_ ruin the evening.

 

At least, he will certainly try.

 

“Do you like it then?” he manages to ask in a small voice, barely noticing Tina’s sudden disappearance from his side.

 

Percival laughs lightly and the sound makes something flutter in Newt’s chest. “Do I like it? Yes, of course I like it. You looked so different that I almost didn’t recognise you at first, but you’re really beautiful like this.”

 

“Oh.” Newt glances down, completely unprepared for the strange mix of delight and disappointment in his chest at his lover’s praise. “I suppose you prefer this look, don’t you? Well, of course. I mean, that’s silly of me. Of course you do.”

 

“Newt.” Percival’s smile dims slightly, but the hands settling on his hips are wonderfully gentle. “What is this about?”

 

Newt blinks. “What is _what_ about?”

 

“This.” Percival steps closer. Newt cannot suppress a shiver when one of those hands glides up, following the curve of his spine. He can feel the warmth, the exact pressure, as if there were no two layers of fabrics between them. “You never care about dressing up for these things. Why the sudden change?”

 

“Don’t I?” he murmurs, keeping his voice light, but Percival’s proximity is making it extremely difficult. “I suppose one has to make an effort at some point.”

 

“But why?”

 

This time, it’s mortification that makes him flush. Newt looks away, fixing his eyes on the spider-shaped punch bowl dominating one end of the refreshment table.

 

“No reason. I just don’t want to embarrass you, is all.”

 

A grim, tight look comes to Percival’s face, “And which blithering moron do I need to hex or demote or reassign to the Arctic for insinuating that you might embarrass me?”

 

“No one!” Newt quickly says, alarmed at the idea that he might cause such trouble. After all, it was just a comment made in passing and most likely with good intention. And Newt admits that he _could_ be a little remiss when it comes to his own appearance. Which is fine when he’s out in the wild, where there is little to no interaction with other human beings. But here, in New York, he has Percival’s reputation to consider.

 

“Then what makes you think that you might embarrass me?”

 

“Because I might? You’re the Director of Magical Security, and in events like this.” He vaguely gestures around, at the roomful of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen. “So, well, I thought I’d make a bit of an effort. You do like this look, don’t you? It’s not too showy?” he adds anxiously.

 

“Newt.” Percival is pulling him closer and there is such gentleness in his eyes, in his tone, that Newt’s heart stutters. “Do you know my favourite look? It’s when you appear on my doorstep looking a hundred shades of unkempt and dishevelled in your weatherbeaten coat, but ultimately safe and sound and only seconds away from being back in my arms. That is my favourite look on you.”

 

“Oh.” Newt falls silent and mulls over this revelation for a moment. “I see. I think. Yes, I do see. But like I said, I just don’t want to embarrass you. And people might talk, so.”

 

Percival’s expression turns a shade incredulous. “Since when have you cared about other people’s opinions?”

 

Newt huffs. “You make me sound so selfish.”

 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Percival chides, tapping his nose, “but do you honestly care about what other people think?”

 

“Well,” Newt bites his lips, “I thought I didn’t, but lately, there seems to be… ah, a few exceptions.”

 

A smile is slowly spreading on Percival’s face. “Dare I count myself among them?”

 

“Yes, Mr Graves, unfortunately you are among those few.”

 

“And if I say I adore you no matter what you wear or how you look?”

 

“Well,” Newt frowns, “that rather stretches belief, doesn’t it? After all, if I showed up in my threadbare pyjamas or worse, starkers even…”

 

Percival laughs. “Yes, that I might mind very much, though not for the reason you think.”

 

“But even if I dress up,” Newt persists, “I still don’t fit in.”

 

“Why fit in? You are made to stand out.”

 

Newt rolls his eyes. “I _knew_ you would say something like that. Be serious.”

 

“I _am_ serious,” Percival declares. “And if you still don’t know why people are looking at you, well, then it’s for the best. We can’t have you running around looking like this and breaking hearts everywhere, can we?”

 

Newt makes a face. “Don’t you think that’s _you_? Why would anyone want to – oh. _Oh_.” It takes him a moment to digest this implication fully. “Are you saying that they’re staring at me, not _reproachfully_ but–”

 

“Recreationally? Yes, that’s exactly what I meant, but let’s not say anything more on the matter. Shall we dance now?”

 

“I can’t dance,” Newt splutters. 

 

“Yes, you can.” Percival is already steering him toward the dance floor. “Your brother told me he always partnered you for his dance practice and you were exceptionally good.”

 

Newt contemplates the possibility of including a few jinxes in his next letter to Theseus (except, what if they hurt the owl instead), but then Percival places a hand on the small of his back, pulls him close, and any other thought loses its consequence and quietly fades into the background.

 

_**End** _

 

 


End file.
